


When Food is Scarce

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Eating Disorders, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-05
Updated: 2014-01-05
Packaged: 2018-01-07 14:46:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1121103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Sherlock's death, and return from the dead, and John's move back to Baker Street, Sherlock notices that John hasn't been eating.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When Food is Scarce

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was mainly written before The Empty Hearse was released so the events of that episode didn't happen in the story.

Doctor John Watson, former captain in the British army glanced at his watch as he walked up the stairs of 221B Baker Street. He had been gone for exactly thirty-two minutes, two minutes longer than was feasibly safe to leave his flatmate alone when he had begun announcing his boredom. Naturally, having the world’s only consulting detective as a flatshare was prone to be exciting, but John could have definitely done without the need to be concerned for the wellbeing of the building if he was gone too long.

When he entered the living room he set out a sigh of relief to see his flatmate lying on the couch. Granted, he was still in his dressing gown and probably hadn’t eaten and it was already past sunset. In fact, he probably hadn’t moved since John left, his eyes boring into the ceiling as he wallowed in his misery. 

The great Sherlock Holmes, genius detective, mad scientist and back from the dead, had not had a case in two weeks. After his return to the land of the living, and his reconciliation with John, he had thrown himself head first into his Work. Solving cold cases in less than two weeks and fresh ones in merely a few hours. That had lasted for a little over five months. When Lestrade ran out of cases Sherlock moved to Detective Inspector Dimmock and dealt with him for another four months. After a week of boredom Sherlock had even accepted cases from his brother, letting those entertain him for nearly half a year. Fifteen months after his legal resurrection, Sherlock had run out of cases and none were forthcoming.

John studied him for a few moments, not used to his stoic approach to boredom, “Did you get a new case, then?”

“What?” The deep baritone asked, his eyes opening and flicking to study John.

“You’re really quiet, I was wondering if you got a new case since you’re no longer bored.”

Sherlock sighed, “No I don’t have a new case, I’m relaxing.”

John stared at him for a few moments, trying to decide if Sherlock was just messing with him or if he was serious, “You? Relaxing?”

“Yes.” Sherlock replied, letting his eyes shut once more.

“When did you start relaxing?”

“During my time away,” That was always what they called the two years of Sherlock’s absence, when they got mentioned at all, “I was constantly on the run, almost always in imminent danger. Two years of never getting to stop longer than a few hours, never really being able to sleep because someone could break in and kill me at any moment. I grew to miss the ability to just lay down and do nothing, or as close to nothing as my brain allows. I decided to take advantage of the opportunity before I lose the ability to appreciate relaxation.”

John shifted slightly on his feet, Sherlock’s explanation made sense, but he felt uncomfortable hearing about what happened to Sherlock while he was away. Mainly because it made him feel guilty. When Sherlock had first returned John’s response was one of yelling, swearing at the detective for making him spend two years mourning his death. Granted, he had married, but being widowed so quickly after the loss of Sherlock had caused his limp to come back (even if for a short period of time before Sherlock’s presence had gotten rid of it once more). Sherlock had taken the abuse in silence, but if John had paused for a few moments he would have noticed how sickly thin the detective was from malnutrition, how deep the bags under his eyes were, the bruises and scars that were starting to fade, that he swayed slightly on his feet. 

When John learned why Sherlock had faked his death he decided to let the subject drop. As more snippets of Sherlock’s years away came to light John’s stomach began to churn when he remembered calling him a ‘selfish bastard.’ Sherlock had not spent two years in the luxury that John had, and he was lucky to be alive.

Rather than voice his discomfort John gave a curt nod, “Well, being away has done wonders for your health, you’ve even been eating without me bothering you about it.”

“Yes,” Sherlock said, drawing the word out as if he had forgotten he was speaking. His eyes flicked open once more, “That reminds me, we’re out of milk.”

John bit back a sigh and turned his back to Sherlock’s still form, the day Sherlock finally went to the store he would drop dead from shock.

…

It only took two days for Sherlock to be over the concept of ‘relaxation.’ When John woke he found his flatmate at kitchen table, his microscope surrounded by several test tubes and a few petri dishes. He paused for a few moments to make sure nothing was spilling on the table, and that Sherlock wasn’t using any of the food for the experiments, before grabbing his coat and heading out the door for his shift at the surgery.

It wasn’t until the front door had opened and closed that Sherlock looked up from his experiment, his brow furrowed in thought. He hadn’t slept the night before and he hadn’t seen John since he had gone to bed early the previous evening, which meant that there was no chance that John had eaten breakfast before he left.

Sherlock racked his mind, wondering if it was an isolated incident, or if he had done something to make him skip his first meal and more importantly, his morning tea. Coming short of both previous times he had noticed it and a cause he applied himself to his experiment once more, resolving to pay attention to John’s eating habits.

…

Lestrade called with a case that evening and Sherlock was in his coat and out of the flat before the details were even done being explained, John just half a step behind him.  Though he classified it as a mere six, John could almost see every nerve in the detective’s body humming with excitement as he rushed about the crime scene. A missing persons case was Sherlock’s second favorite case to solve, the added component of an unknown time limit to get to the abductees before they died.

It took Sherlock two and a half days to solve the case and find the three missing people. The criminal had led them on an impressive chase across half of London before surrendering in the face of John’s gun pointed directly at his head. The pair returned to the flat, adrenaline rushing through their veins, after Lestrade had gotten their reports, Sherlock hailed a cab. He was slightly surprised when John didn’t correct him when he told the cabbie to take them to Baker Street. Usually, John would override Sherlock’s instructions and have them dropped off at a restaurant so he could force Sherlock to eat.

He glanced at the doctor from the corner of his eyes before making the decision, changing his own instructions. John shot him a look but didn’t say anything when Sherlock gave the address to Angelo’s. They entered the restaurant and sat at the table without saying anything. When the waiter moved to the table and asked for the order, John gave him a small smile and said he would pass.

“He’ll have the usual,” Sherlock said firmly, ignoring the glare that was sent his way, “And I’ll have the same.”

John waited until the waiter left before saying, “I’m not hungry, Sherlock.”

“You haven’t eaten a meal in approximately fifty hours.”

“That’s not true.”

“The bag of crisps you had four hours ago does not count as a meal, John,” Sherlock said, “We’ve already ordered.”

John sighed but didn’t argue, his gaze shifting to the window. He barely glanced up when the food arrived and didn’t seem to notice that Sherlock was more occupied watching John pick at his food than eating his own. By the time they finished, nearly an hour later, they left with both plates more full than empty. Once back at 221B John went to bed with a murmured goodnight as Sherlock moved to the kitchen. He opened the fridge, frowning at the contents, or lack of them. He normally never spent long in front of the fridge, opening it just long enough to place an experiment inside or to take the milk. However, he knew that John usually kept more than just his experiment and the milk inside.

What had John been eating if there wasn’t any food in the flat?

…

John woke to the sound of plates clattering in the kitchen and he was out of bed without a second thought, rubbing his eyes as he stumbled down the hall, prepared to swear at his flatmate for breaking something in one of his ridiculous experiments. What he found was something completely different.

Standing at the stove in his dressing gown, the detective was piling pancakes onto a plate, buttering each side before flopping it onto the stack. John let his eyes roam and noticed that the table was miraculously clear of petri dishes and was instead covered with plates of toast, bowls of fruit, a jug of juice and a teapot.

“God, I must be hallucinating,” John muttered, “Sherlock?”

“Sit down and stop gaping, John, I do know how to cook.” The response was lacking the usual bite as Sherlock turned and placed the plate of pancakes on the table.

John sat, if only because he wasn’t sure his legs could support the shock. Everything in front of him looked absolutely delicious and his stomach loudly protested the lack of food in his system. He glanced up, knowing that Sherlock would have noticed but hoping he wouldn’t mention anything. The detective met his gaze for a moment, looking thoughtful, before he turned to grab glasses and sugar for the tea.

He settled into the chair across from John, “Help yourself.”

John piled his plate with pancakes and fruit, saving the toast for later as Sherlock poured him a cup of tea. They ate in silence, John amazed with how much he was capable of eating as he filled his plate with seconds and then thirds. Sherlock watched, unable to shove aside the slightly smug smile that was on his lips.

“What’s the occasion?” John asked when he finally slowed down, sipping from his glass of juice, “You didn’t kill someone, did you?”

“I hardly think I would find a murder worth celebrating by making you breakfast, John,” Sherlock said, amused, “You haven’t been eating and I decided to remedy the issue.”

John shifted slightly in his seat, “How do you find time to notice my eating habits when you haven’t developed any yourself?”

“Besides the point, how long have you not been eating properly?” John didn’t reply but Sherlock saw the answer in his eyes, a scowl forming on his lips as he stood from the table and began pacing, “I should have known.”

The doctor watched Sherlock pace, a storm in a silk dressing gown, slightly confused as to why Sherlock was so upset. He didn’t say anything, electing to finish his juice as Sherlock cast his mind back over the last few months, probably trying to find all the times he should have noticed earlier. When the detective didn’t show any signs of stopping John stood with a sigh and left the room to take a shower.

Sherlock registered John’s departure but didn’t acknowledge it. He had been aware, vaguely, when he stood on the roof of the hospital that his death would hurt John. At the time, he had not considered the extent to which the pain would run. Sherlock wasn’t used to people actually caring about him, particularly people who were not related to him in any fashion. His family had known about the trick, and as such they had no reason to be concerned. But John. John was a different matter.

The shower shut off and Sherlock continued to pace, his thoughts a maelstrom as he examined every factor of John’s eating disorder as well as his emotions over the matter.

When John reentered the room, he raised an eyebrow to see Sherlock still pacing back and forth but didn’t comment. He grabbed the morning paper and moved to his usual chair, reading the news. His thoughts were interrupted when Sherlock stopped pacing abruptly, standing in front of him.

“Sherlock?”

“I’m sorry.”

John blinked, “Sorry for what? You didn’t poison my breakfast did you?” He joked.

“No, John. I’m sorry for hurting you so deeply. I didn’t know, didn’t even consider it would have such an effect on you. If I had known-.” He cut himself off, a dark expression crossing his face before it vanished as he knelt in front of John’s chair, “I’m sorry.”

“You already apologized, Sherlock, and I already forgave you.” John said, putting his paper down.

“Not for this. I apologized for tricking you, I didn’t apologize for what I did to you as a result of the trick. You haven’t been eating properly for, I’m not even sure, at least two years.”

John shifted, slightly uncomfortable with the topic of his eating habits, “Hadn’t expected you to care much, seeing as you don’t eat properly yourself.”

Sherlock flapped his hand impatiently, “Different, I don’t eat because it interferes with my thought process. You stopped eating because you stopped caring. You get me to eat through threats, or forcing it. For you to eat you need….” He paused, eye’s twinkling as if he had just solved a puzzle, “You need someone to care.”

“Sherlock, I don’t need to be psychoanalyzed by my flatmate. Just drop it.”

“No.”

He gave a huff of frustration, “Why not?”

“Because I care.”

John rolled his eyes, “That clears everything up then. Care about what, exactly?”

The detective didn’t reply straight away, his eyes fixed on John’s as his gave seemed to intensify. It left John feeling slightly bereft of air. He swallowed heavily and watched, in disbelief, as Sherlock’s eyes flicked to follow the movement of his throat before returning to his.

Maybe Sherlock was right about needing to eat more, he was clearly hallucinating. John had never dared to hope that his feelings for Sherlock would be reciprocated, especially after he had been so thoroughly shut down their first meal at Angelo’s.

“Can’t you see, John?” Sherlock finally said his voice soft but John didn’t miss a single word, “You. I care about you.”

John opened his mouth to reply, only to find that he didn’t know what to say, shutting it quickly as he stared at Sherlock. They met each other’s gazes for what seemed to stretch into eternity before Sherlock leaned forward and pressed his lips to John’s. The doctor froze for a split-second before pressing back, letting his eyes flutter shut as Sherlock’s mouth moved against his.

Sherlock’s hands rested on John’s legs as John’s found their way to curly hair. Sherlock gently pressed his tongue against John’s lower lip and the doctor opened his lips, sighing softly as Sherlock explored his mouth. They kissed slowly, as if they had all the time in the world.

When Sherlock finally drew away for air he pressed his forehead against John’s, “Do you see now?”

John smiled slightly, “Yes.”

He was rewarded with another short kiss before Sherlock pulled away, moving towards his room. John frowned slightly, “Where are you going?”

“To get dressed, we have to go shopping. I only got enough food for breakfast so there’s nothing to eat in this flat.” Sherlock replied.

“You? Shopping?”

“Have to make sure you get the right milk,” Came the response and John grinned.  

**Author's Note:**

> I got the idea for this fic from a post that's been floating around tumblr for a while. [ (x) ](http://livingholmesless.tumblr.com/post/57128109351/thisismyracheality-joolabee)
> 
> Comments and constructive criticism are always more than welcome. As are one shot prompts, left either here or on my [ tumblr. ](http://livingholmesless.tumblr.com/prompts)


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